‘I doubt it. If thieves burst in, Puff would run away.’

‘And would you have done the same?’

He was enough of a philosopher to know this was a critical question. He sighed. ‘I would defend life, wretched though it is. One needs to be civilised – though god knows what for.’

‘To avoid crucifixion or being eaten by a lion, Chrysodorus … There must have been noise. Didn’t the dog waken?’

‘The dog is stone deaf.’

‘And you?’

‘I sleep the heavy sleep of doomed humanity. In explanation: since the dog snores atrociously, I have prevailed upon a medicine-man to give me a sleeping draught. He prescribes for the dog officially, but slips me a potion too.’

‘This doctor is on the staff?’

‘Aviola’s.’

‘Sent to Campania?’

‘Correct. Fortunately he left me supplies. Puff had been fed unsuitable titbits at the feast, so she was farting like a furnace-stoker. That became a night when I needed a sleeping draught merely to continue to exist.’

I tried to look sorry for him, though I am fond of dogs. ‘I have not seen a pooch at the apartment. What happened to her?’

‘Puff has been brought to me. My earthly suffering never ends.’

‘What will happen to Puff now your mistress has passed away?’

‘A vicious rumour whispers I am to be freed in Mucia Lucilia’s will – but legally compelled to take care of the dog. So, believe me, Flavia Albia, I gained no advantage from killing my mistress! The one joy I will take from being led into an arena is that I may feed bloody Puff to a wild beast as an appetiser.’

‘Then you can die happy?’

‘Happiness is an overrated concept.’

I would have liked to dispute that, but Chrysodorus seemed too glum to enjoy theoretical argument. Which may be overrated, I accept – though it’s better entertainment than listening to a string of people lying to you.

Well, they were slaves. You know the saying: I blame the owners.

I went and inspected Puff. She was the kind of dog you see in cities that are full of small apartments: a tiny, fragile-boned ratty thing, which seemed to be parts glued together from different varieties, none of them pretty. A woman’s lapdog – for a woman with no sense.

I did not pat or speak to Puff. She was no use to me. Dogs, like women, do not possess legal capacity and cannot bear witness in a Roman law court.

To change the script from masculine blather, I called Olympe as my next interviewee. I had heard her singing, in a low, unmistakably Lusitanian style. No one appeared to be listening.